Wandering Spirit
by PhantomInvader
Summary: One mysterious murder, one ghost boy. Haunting nightmares hint to Danny that something is not right in Amity park, but as the mystery gets more complicated, Danny tries to battle with his newfound powers and his sanity. Rewrite.


**Here it is. Slowly but surely, it is being rewritten. New objective, new plot, same premise, I suppose.**

**I guess I got the inspiration when I looked at it on my stories list and realized how immature it was of me to discontinue this story for the purpose of reviews. Plus, I couldn't just leave it like this after I got new inspiration at school.**

**I need to stop making new stories...**

**--Phanny**

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_A small metallic shudder echoed as he wandered. The playground was empty, though he could still hear the whispers and laughter of children as the never ending landscape passed him. He swore his feet weren't moving, he knew it to be so, but still, it was as though he were a passenger on some bizarre ride._

_The playground looked like something out of an old movie. Color was absent, and it seemed to be foggy and unfocused as an unbearable chill crept through his skin, and the wind caused the swings to creak ominously._

_Suddenly, the ground in front of him began to glow, brighter and brighter, and a low sound became louder._

_A car...?_

_The purring motor was proof enough for him as he turned around. A black car was speeding towards him, and Danny waited for it to come screeching to a halt at the last second. He tried to move, to get out of the way, but he couldn't move his feet. It's like they weren't there._

_He was forced to watch as the lights grew brighter, as he knew that the car was never going to stop._

_Closer and closer..._

- - - - - -

**CRASH!!**

Danny Fenton fell out of his bed, drenched in sweat yet again. He rubbed his head where he'd hit it on his night table and stood up, looking at his clock. Five AM.

He stretched and stifled a yawn. This was the third night in a row he'd had the same dream, and he knew there was no possibility of more sleep.

He sat on his bed, clutching his head slightly as he shook the images of his dream from his mind. deep down he knew it was of little use. The dream never completely left him alone.

Grabbing an old pair of sweats and a T-shirt, Danny headed to the bathroom. A shower sounded really good right then.

As he let the warm water run down his back, he couldn't help but think that there was no way the dream could be meaningless. He shook his head, as if his troubled thoughts would wash down the drain like water. He'd talk to Jazz, after all, what psychiatrist didn't know about dreams?

As it turns out, Jazz didn't know a thing about dreams.

"So, three nights?" The redhead asked for the billionth time.

"Jazz," her brother replied, annoyance shadowing his tone, "if you don't know, just say it."

Jazz Fenton was never one to admit she was wrong, nor was she one to admit that there was something going on with her brother that she couldn't help him with.

Danny placed his head in his hands as Jazz spoke up again. "Are you stressed about anything? School, ghost fighting?"

"I'm always stressed." Danny said dryly. "I'd be worried if I _wasn't_ stressed." He got up off his sister's bed, murmuring a "thanks" and leaving. Frankly, Jazz didn't know what he was thanking her for, but Jazz Fenton was never one to turn down gratitude either.

Danny began his normal routine of hanging with Sam and Tucker, who were in the process of doing history homework.

Unfortunately for our favorite trio, homework sessions usually happen like so:

"Who was Eli Whitney?"

"Who cares? He's dead now."

- - - - - -

The Moore house was silent that Sunday morning.

The house was perfectly normal, of course. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, the same thing any other house had. But it wasn't what this house had that made it silent.

It was what was _missing._

Erika Eve Moore had been a bright girl for six years of age. She took after her mother with black hair and green eyes, her fair skin and long limbs came courtesy of her father.

None of these details were mentioned in her article.

_"Six year old Erika Eve Moore's body was found in Young Park on the night of April twenty-second after apparently being struck by a drunk driver. Said driver cannot be located and currently charges of manslaughter are being pressed..."_

Jake Moore shoved the paper away as he ate his breakfast. Those people didn't even look! They didn't know what happened to his sister. They didn't know anything about her at all!

His sandy brown hair covered his eyes as he feigned eating. He hadn't been very hungry, but the last thing his parents needed at the moment was to think their twelve year old son was starving himself.

Jake once again looked at the paper in disgust, and he stomped to his room, not bothering to clean up. He deliberately dragged his feet over the front page, wanting the liars who wrote it to suffer, wanting them to know that they knew nothing about his family and their pain.

Jake knew a lot more.

He knew his sister's favorite songs, toys, books, and games.

He knew what her laughed sounded like and what size she was when she was born.

He also knew that his sister didn't get hit by a car. She was killed.

------

**Yeah. It's weird, I know. **


End file.
